I’m going to break one of my column writing rules today. There aren’t many. Mainly it’s things like try to come within at least one or two letters of spelling a word correctly or know what day your column is due so you have plenty of time to come up with an excuse for why it’s not ready. This week it was, “I sprained the three fingers I type with.”
But the one rule I always adhere to is: Never write about the dentist (they can cause too much pain), the water department (if you like to bathe, don’t mess with people who can cut off your water), anyone who prepared your food (need I say more), or most of all, your barber. Don’t mess with anyone who can buzz “Big Idiot” in the back of your head.
But my barber is moving to another state and can’t shave my noggin’ anymore. Freedommmm!
I’ve been going to Price’s Barber Shop since I was in college, and for that long, Genie’s been turning me into a respectable member of society. I go in about every 4 months looking like a Yeti, she wonders what in the world she did in a past life to deserve this, and then fires up the chain saw.
Cutting my hair is a lot like trimming a pecan tree: you need special equipment, you need a pole saw, you need a truck with a basket on the end of a crane, you need to start drinking early in the day, you need to be brave, and you need to realize you might go in and never come out again.
It gets major curl, and thick like a tumbleweed. My hair will dull pruning sheers, and has been known to alter weather patterns. It’s unruly, and while most of the time it’s gorgeous, it can also be moody, temperamental, and turn on you in an instant like a jungle cat.
But Genie has never been afraid. She’s mastered the cowlicks, which can appear like whirlpools in the ocean and disappear just as quickly. She is used to the occasional squirrel that pops out, or finding leaves and twigs. She knows I talk a lot, that I move quite a bit and that she must constantly be on guard, lest she snip off an ear. She knows my ears are crooked, and if you use them as guides while cutting my hair, you can get lost and leave me quite lopsided.
She has conquered my hair, and that’s hard to do. So I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her stories about falling off of horses, or how she recently broke her wrist while karate-chopping a board. There’s nothing more terrifying than being the first customer of a woman who is sporting a newly-fractured wrist.
“You going to be able to cut my hair with that?” I asked, her arm grape juice purple and visibly throbbing.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I’m heavily medicated and can’t see straight, but the pain is manageable.”
That’s when most people get up and run. But I stayed.
So she’s going, and I’ll move on to a new barber. Easier said than done, it turns out. Here I thought I would be a hot commodity at Price’s — that they would be fighting to cut my mop. How wrong I was. They’re drawing straws to see who gets “stuck” with me. They’re making me fill out an application, and there’s an interview process with a written essay.
It’s like I’m trying to get into a country club. I need references. I have to take a drug test. I have to promise to wash my hair at least two days before I come in. They’ve hinted bribes might be necessary. And they won’t let me pick my own haircut anymore. Then I find out there’s a waiting list.
I might just have to follow Genie up to Tennessee for a cut until my credit check comes through. Sure wish I hadn’t broken that column-writing rule now.